darkened-money lessened. As a last resort, | Mrs. Kirkham decided to take a boarder-a gendeman boarder-and for his use she would appropriate her best bed-chamber, a pretty room, over the neat little parlour. With the aid of her old domestic, she could manage household affairs, and her niece and daughter might still pursue their sewing. Allie and Mabel approved of this, and the next week the following notice appeared in the village paper: "A pleasant room and boarding for one gentleman to be had on reasonable terms. Apply at Mrs. Kirkham's." No one responded to this advertisement, and for the fourth and last time, it filled a corner in the "Weekly Herald." This time it was successful. A stranger whom the stage had brought to the village a half hour before, carelessly picked up the paper. Sylvester Trelan, for so he had booked his name, read this notice twice, walked the hotel piazza some dozen times, and then, having apparently arrived at a satisfactory conclusion, desired to be shown the way to Mrs. Kirkham's. During a walk of some minutes, Mr. Trelan asked many questions of his little guide, concerning the Kirkham family, expressing his determination, if he liked them, to remain some weeks. I don't know, reader, what pleased Sylvester Trelan so much at the cottage, but this I do know, that after gazing round the pretty chamber with its oldfashioned red and green carpet, long white window-curtains, and neatly made bed with snowy Marseilles quilt, and after a brief conversation with Mrs. Kirkham, he engaged to be her boarder for several months, at least until autumn. Sylvester Trelan was a tall man. His figure was good, his eyes dark blue and piercing, his features regular, and when he smiled, he looked pleasant. But he was not handsome; his complexion was deeply bronzed, and he wore his dark brown hair in thick clustering masses over his brow; which, added to his habitually stern expression of countenance, rendered him rather unprepossessing in appearance. Sylvester Trelan had travelled much; his home had been in foreign countries; and therefore, when he chose, his conversation became singularly interesting and pleasing. He was wealthy, and paid generously, and Mrs. Kirkham was well satisfied with her boarder. Allie and Mabel did not like him : at times his manners were strangely abrupt, and ere Sylvester Trelan had been two weeks in her house, Mrs. Kirkham adopted their sentiments: her feelings underwent a sudden and violent change toward him. "I heard something in the village to-day, which interested me exceedingly," said Mr. Trelan to Mabel Lynn, as he sat with her one evening upon the porch. "Indeed! what was it?" listlessly asked Mabel. An old tale to you, I presume; I refer to the drowning of Mrs. Kirkham's son, years ago." A deep flush spread over Mabel Lynn's face, and her voice quivered as she spoke. "An old tale' indeed, and one full of misery. Don't talk to me of Ned, Mr. Trelan; you don't know what heart-rending memories your remark has awakened." "I am surprised, Miss Lynn; you talk as if you loved this Kirkham." "Loved him! Yes; child as I was, I loved him dearly, sir; he was my cousin-my brother. Oh Ned! Ned!" and Mabel Lynn wept bitterly Mr. Trelan looked troubled, earnest, and perplexed. "Pardon me; I knew not this subject was so painful to you.' "You might have known," quickly returned Mabel; then, checking herself, she added, "pro mise never to mention this subject in this house again, especially to my aunt; we never speak to her of Ned." Ere Trelan could reply, they were summoned to tea. As Mrs. Kirkham took her seat at the tea-tray, Mr. Trelan fixed his large blue eyes intently upon her. "Madam," he said, in a low thrilling tone, which caused Allie Dale to start, and Mabel to look imploringly upon him, "Madam, I heard to-day, for the first time, of your son being drowned near this village, many years ago." A quick contraction of the mouth, a deadly pallor of the cheek, and otherwise Mrs. Kirkham was calm. "Talk not to me of Edward Kirkham," she said hoarsely; "he went to the bar of his God, a wretched suicide.” "And pray, Mrs. Kirkham, why did he commit suicide? had he just cause for it?—was he un happy?" coolly asked Trelan. Mrs. Kirkham's hand trembled violently, and she sat down the coffee-pot. Allie Dale burst into tears, and Mabel leaned back in her chair, and covered her eyes. Notwithstanding this, and the horror-stricken looks of the old servant, who, fly-brush in hand, stood as if petrified, Trelan calmly repeated the question: "Had he cause?" "Oh, misery! yes-but who are you, that you dare speak to me of Ned?" Mrs. Kirkham rose from the table with a sudden shudder, and Allie followed her. Sylvester Trelan's confused apology was lost upon Mabel; she seemed scarcely to hear it. Shortly after, when he took his hat and left the house, Mabel sought her aunt. That night, the first time for seventeen years, Mrs. Kirkham spoke to Allie and Mabel of Ned. CHAPTER III. the face of heaven, and wailing winds and dash- "Did you address me, Madam ?" asked Sylvester Trelan, stepping from the deep window recess, where he had been standing unobserved. "Address you? No! I knew not that you were in the room," returned Mrs. Kirkham, hastily subduing her grief, and rising from her chair. "You appeared to be mourning for your " "Don't mention his name to me again," violently interrupted Mrs. Kirkham, her whole frame trembling with emotion. Sylvester Trelan covered his face with his hands, and muttered, "It is well." When he looked up he was alone. "It is cruel, unaccountable, his behaviour," said Mabel Lynn, as she listened with flushed cheek, Fifth Prize Article. ISHMAEL. BY V. J. JEFFEL. [Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, by JOHN SARTAIN & Co., in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.] aught but a miracle could save the poor woman from being trodden to death under the hoofs of a herd, in which each animal communicated momentum to the rest, but had no power of indiv► dual action. He never stopped to weigh proba bilities, but bounded up the lane, and stood in the gateway with both arms extended. The foremost of the herd recoiled within ten feet of him; but, although their dread of the human form caused them to resist with all their might, the on-driving force behind was too strong, and the young man, received between the wide-spread horns of a stately ox, was pressed, staggering, backwards, till he stood almost over the outstretched body of the girl. Then it was, that the front line of cattle, wedged in fast between the gate-posts, formed a living wall: the resistance in front was greater than at the sides: the fence to the right gave way; and in the space of time that one might draw a full breath, the lane was cleared, and the herd, frightened and scattered, were racing over a twenty-acre field. tinguished but a fair, oval face. A glance at this, however, which he caught as he raised her in his arms, quite regardless of the mass of mud he was at the same time clasping, enabled him to recognise that she was a pretty girl, who pe➤ haps had seen her eighteenth birth-day. A YOUNG man, quite jauntily dressed, was walking one day along the muddiest street in the suburbs of Baltimore. Just as he had plunged his foot into the midst of a viscid pool-by comparison with its connected waters, a very Lake Superior the exclamation of disgust which such an incident was likely to call forth from the wearer of a new patent-leather boot was cut short by a noise as startling as it was loud. Arrested in that picturesque attitude, which showed a well-formed person to much advantage,-with The rescuer lifted up the fainting, yet not un ane foot on solid earth, the other buried ankle-conscious form of the female. The thick coating deep in the centre of the slimy sea-he turned of soft cohesive clay that clung around her the upper portion of his body half round, and making almost as effectual a disguise as the ban looked eagerly in the direction of the noise. Ex-dages of a mummy, suffered little else to be dis tending from the street at right angles, was a narrow lane of considerable length, which terminated at a cluster of board pens, and a low brick edifice, hard by a small brook. Some twenty paces from the street, the lane was cut by a stout gate. The post on which this hung, suspended also a smaller gate, which served to Before she had recovered sufficiently to thank give passage through the fence at the left, to the him, another person appeared—a man, who ran door-yard of a dwelling. It seemed that a young up from the street. He was rather under the woman, who had gone up the lane, was just put-middle stature, compactly knit, though not clumsy: ting her hand to the latch of the small gate, when the other flew open with such violence that she was prostrated by the concussion. The gate was hung so high that it passed clear over her, and swung back, unobstructed, to the fence. At the same instant, an ox galloped by frantically, leap-completed his costume, from all which it was ing over her as he went; and a little distance behind, a whole herd of cattle came dashing on with the same furious speed, and gave forth the discordant sounds which had attracted the attention of the pedestrian. As it afterwards appeared, these were beeves, driven fresh from pasture to the shambles, where the temporary madness into which the first sight of blood sometimes throws these animals had excited them beyond the control of their keepers. The young woman was in a situation of real danger. The drove of cattle, cooped in on either side by the high, strong fence, and impelled precipitately forward, the one by the other, were crowded into a dense mass, in which animal could not be distinguished from animal, while from the whole there arose a noise made up of the clatter of interlocking horns, and the bellow af rage and distress. There is something fearful at any time in such a display of brute energy. It shocks us as unnatural, to see matter gifted by inseated life with a force which is prodigious and resistless, while reason, ordained the governor of Life, is not there. But the youth in the street, as the whole scene broke upon him, had no time for any thought but of the fellow human being who lay in the path of the frantic cattle. It seemed impossible that anything could stay their course, and that, unless it were arrested, he wore a greasy cap, below which stuck up some short crisp hair, of grizzled gray: he had no coat on, and his up-rolled shirt sleeves left his arms bare, which were small, but round, hard, and muscular: a cotton apron, bespattered with blood, evident he was a butcher, and, as his manners soon showed, by no means the gentlest of his craft. "Well, this is sweet!-the cattle all scattered the dickens, and drifting off twenty blessed pounds of fat apiece!-Humph!" (this was accompanied by a nod at the young man)-"I am beholden you for as much as you've done. I'spose you couldn't well help the critters breaking the fence. But I'm desp'rate busy just now-there, I'll take Ellen. And what may your name be, sir?" 'Henry-Brooke.” 46 Well, it's like I may see you another time. Good morning to you." At that, he carried rather than led, his daughter into the house, and the said Henry Brooke, with a broadcloth suit none the better for his exploit, was left, like one astound," and had only to turn away and trudge towards his lodgings. Soon after he got into the street, he inquired of a boy he met," Who lives in that house?" "Ishmael, the butcher," was the answer, and a tougher he is, stranger, if you but knew it." Henry Brooke Fulham, a fortnight previous was a student in good standing, at Yale; but a sudden decision of the faculty had rendered him no longer one. Under the first impulse of boyish shame, he had dropped his surname, and hurried to a place where he was not at all known. This very day he had received a letter from his uncle and guardian, in which the writer scolded him roundly-not so much on account of his getting into the "scrape," but because he had not got out of it, when, by his own showing, he might have done so by only telling the truth-at the expense of his fellow-rioters. The worthy gentleman represented in affecting terms, that, in his scrupulous regard for that foolish thing, college honour, the young man had not manifested a proper consideration for him, dependent as he was upon him for his daily support. The uncle closed with a reference to the large family of his own, which imposed so great a burthen on him that he had little surplus of income to devote even to the son of his brother. Henry wrote back instantly, thanked him for past advances, promised to repay them as soon as possible, and added, that in the mean time, he was glad to assure him he could get along perfectly well without further assistance. And this magnanimous declaration was made at a time when he did not see his way clear to a single dollar which might go towards replenishing an entirely empty purse. The next day was the sabbath, and Henry on his way to church, determined to call at the butcher's. "I want to find out whether that girl's hurt." He went to the house by the mode of approach which he had reason to be familiar with. He knocked-there was no bell-but the summons was not immediately acknowledged. The door was ajar, and the rapping had made it open wider that leading from the passage to a side-room was also open, and it was possible both to see and hear a good deal of what was going on inside. About the centre of the room stood a small lad with the intensest awe painted on his countenance. He was an orphan, an apprentice to the butcher, who had taken him from the almshouse. It seems he had just returned from Sunday-school, and in reply to his master's question, what library-book he had brought home (for Ishmael was occasionally disposed to indulge in light literature), he silently handed him a thin duodecimo. "Short method with the De-," read Ishmael, aloud; and exclaimed immediately, in towering wrath, "Short method I'll make with you, you brat!" And dashing down the volume, he seized the boy by the arm. "Please, sir," said the child, whimpering, and shaking from head to foot with terror, "I didn't know nothin' about it-'deed I didn't. I only fotched what was given to me." "I won't lash you, then, Mordaunt; but this is what I'll do." The man went on, then, in violent objurgation against the Sunday-school, and all who had the management of it; declared the teachers thought of nothing but how to insult him, treating him as a heathen, when in fact he was as good a man as they; and closed by announcing his fixed determination never to allow the boy to go again. After a minute's interval, he proceeded afresh, and with undiminished rage. He swore he would take the boy's moral training into his own hands. "I'll train him-that I will! And if he don't learn deviltry a sight faster than the chaps over yonder learn the gospel, it will be a wonder. Daunt!" the boy started, and looked up, "you shall be an example to the world, that you shall!" A gentle female voice was now heard expos tulating. He answered: the voice rejoined, and a quick dialogue was kept up for some minutes. The listener became much interested. The butcher, he could see, remained hard and unyielding. "Hush, Ellen! not a word more, or you'll find you yourself have made your last trip to church." To this she answered in a touching way, that it were far better she should lose the benefit of the Sabbath, than that the poor, ignorant child should. Ishmael appeared surprised, and referred to her "half-killing herself" in the labours of the week, for the sake of securing the seventh day's rest, and asked whether it was possible she was willing to relinquish the fruits of the self-denial for the sake of an "ugly little wretch like Daunt." Then Ellen, all enkindled with generous zeal, came forth into the middle of the room, and Henry could see her plainly. To hear her now, as in perfect simplicity and forgetfulness of self, she poured forth her soul in that flowing, unbroken strain, so low, and yet so distinct in its earnestness, made the heart thrill, and the ear tingle. No preacher's eloquence could have had such power to stir the wild, impulsive student. As his ears drank in every word that fell from her lips, as his eyes watched her countenance which more than spoke-for it seemed to glow with an inspiration sent direct from heaven-he felt as if his spirit were entranced-as if he beheld the realms of woe mirrored in the black features of the butcher-as if he recognised, visibly emanating from the form of the Christian girl, an atmosphere, ethereal, penetrating, transporting, like that in whose midst angels walk. How she pleaded with her father for the poor boy, whose famishing soul he was cruelly robbing of healthful food, while instead, he proposed to feed him on poison-that helpless being, entrusted to him to be taught a useful and an ho nest calling, but whom he threatened to instruct in the mystery of sin and wretchedness, so that he might leave his forming hands at the end, endowed with the gift of an eternal curse! words of fire she described what a thing it is to abandon one's own self to destruction;-but (she added), wantonly to stretch forth the hand, and drag down into the gulf a wretched fellow-crea ture, what language could describe that? Carried away by the fervour of her spirit, she knelt before him, and implored him to show himself merciful as he would hope to receive mercy. In "The boy shall go!-the boy shall go! I'm not such a villain as all that! To be sure, I need Daunt's help amazingly of Sundays in the slaughter-house; for the nigger, too, has his notions of keeping the good day, so I am left alone. Still, I shan't hinder the boy, not I! He shall go to meeting-Sunday-school—everywhere you please!" Henry Fulham withdrew from his post, walked down the steps softly, and then returned, making a studiously loud noise with his feet. His knock was this time answered by Mordaunt, who "How do you do, ushered him into the room. Mr. Ishmael?" said the visiter, when he had bestowed a bow and an earnest glance upon Ellen. The butcher gave him a queer look, but replied, with surly courtesy, that he was well enough. After a few further remarks had been ex changed, Henry again addressed him as "Mr. Ishmael." "No, no!" exclaimed Henry, and kept on heroically. After a while the butcher looked at My name's not Ishmael, but John Penny- him again.-"You can't work any longer this goes." Henry, quite abashed, stammered some words to the effect that he had been informed his name was Ishmael. "Yes; everybody about here calls me soeverybody, behind my back, and some to my face. They give me the nickname, I believe, because I'm something of an Arab-every man's hand's agin me, and they say-maybe it's true, too-my hand's agin every man. After all, what odds is the difference? I don't know but Ishmael's as good a sound as Pennygoes: it has the, advantage, too, of bein' a scriptur' name." way, that's certain; you are getting too cold for my good, as well as yours. Tell you what, go and help Wash-that will be warmer; and Daunt can come here." "Set the boy at this? Why he would freeze!" "Daunt freeze! Not he! He's used to it." The exchange was made. If before, Henry was cold, he was now in addition, disgusted and sickened. Washington, a great muscular negro, expressed much wonder at his being so much affected. Not long after, the remark was made that it was time to blow the hide off. "How! You don't use powder, do you?" But when the old black noticed how he was suffering, both from the cold and the shock that the whole scene gave to a sensitiveness which had been kept tender by delicate nurture, he scanned him pityingly from head to foot, and said, "Well, now, Ishmael is a hard customer, ain't he?" Henry heartily assented. Henry (who had obtained temporary employ-ness!" ment as a draughtsman under his name of Brooke), continued for several months to visit Ellen Pennygoes, and with an increasing interest. He found her, despite the contaminating coarseness of the scene in which she existed, endowed with a rare delicacy of character. By no means his own equal in literary attainments, she had so improved a good mind with the few books which had fallen in her way, that she was very far above the rude ignorance of her father. Going through daily, as she did, an amount of labour greater than that which is so often sufficient to reduce the poor creatures who perform the lower sorts of menial drudgery, into a state of semi-brutality, she retained all the pure loveliness of woman. She was able to do so because, though walking through a slough, she never came in contact with the surrounding mire. She lived in a different world-a world of pure thoughts and high imaginings. What perhaps was most remarkable about her, was, that notwithstanding this solitary and spiritual existence, she had all the cheerfulness which belongs to social humanity. One frosty night in December, Henry was comfortably seated by the fireside, talking with Ellen, when Pennygoes entered hurriedly. "Ellen," he said, "I've got a great lot of beef to pack to-night. I must have some help. Wash and Daunt are busy killing, so we'll have to try for once what you can do." "What! carry Ellen down to that hole?" "Hole, indeed!—I tell you, Brooke, I never want my daughter to be in a more respectable place. Hole!-I have made some honest shillings there, I can tell you. But if it was the filthiest den that ever was, I must have help there to-night; the ship sails for Barbadoes to-morrow, and I have an order to make up the cargo." Then Washington, having peeped through a convenient chink in the wall, to see that his "boss" was out of hearing, rejoined: He's a 'tickler specimen, and no mistake. Ive seed heaps of bad people, but I never seed one that hadn't some good c`racter 'sides him. Ishmael's got no feeling whatsomever. I tell you, young master, you takes a sight too much pains with him-he ain't worth it." The operation of getting in another ox interrupted the colloquy.. The negro offered the knife to his young companion Henry recoiled with undisguised horror, and in his sympathy for the stricken beast, forgot even the agony of his frost-bitten feet. The jet of blood took a direction he did not expect, and some drops fell upon his person. This incident completed his discomfort. As Pennygoes and he walked towards the dwelling, the former remarked, "You have suf fered some to-night." Henry admitted the fact "And you have done it to spare Ellen." This also the young man acknowledged. Now, sir," resumed the butcher, "I want know what's your mind respecting the girl. Are you thinking to take a wife out of the shambles?" Henry, born of a family that for several generations had been affluent, had inherited, none of its wealth indeed, but a full share of its pride and fastidious refinement. At college he was called the proudest fellow in his class. Yet he had now to make his resolve: even to the shambles would he go, as Pennygoes had sneeringly said, to secure such a companion as Ellen; and so he signified to the questioner. Ellen was quietly putting on her shawl and bonnet, when Henry, unable to bear the sight, declared he would go in her stead. "Come on, then," said the butcher, shortly; and down they "I have no objection to make," replied the walked. The night was bitter cold, and Henry, father; "I have given you a little sort of a trial. forced by the nature of the employment to dis- You are mighty tender just at present, but there's pense with his cloak, suffered acutely. Very that in you which will grow out into ruggedness soon his fingers were as rigid as the frozen meat You'll be able to scratch out a living, which the he was handling; next, his toes ached intolerably; man should be who takes Ellen off my hands, for tight, thin-soled boots, are not the best pro- for he gets nothing with her-not a cent of money tection against the damp floor of a slaughter--not a wedding frock even. It is true, I've house; finally, every limb and every fibre trembled from the intensity of the cold." You look chilly, Brooke," said Pennygoes; "better let Ellen spell you a while." scraped together a dollar or two, and may get more-but none goes to Ellen, though she's the only kin I have-not a dollar, either at this pre sent or after I'm dead and gone. Perhaps I'm saving my money to found a hospital for crippled and unthrifty cattle that can't be made beef of, or for some other laudable institution for perpetuating my glory. Yes, young man, I am labouring for an object--for an object which in the sight of these honest and clean-handed people around here, would seem too small and ridiculous to justify a man in sacrificing body and soul to its attainment. But this is my business; what concerns you is, to know that Ellen is as poor as a beggar's daughter. Are you willing to take her?" The day for the wedding approached. Henry did not choose to marry under a false name. So he broke the true state of the matter to his intended father-in-law. "Fulham? Fulham?" "Yes, sir, son of Melancthon Fulham," and he proceeded eagerly to explain how it was that boyish pride and no crime had induced the concealment. Pennygoes cut him short. "Never mind your story. You are too young, I judge, to have a wife already, and as for anything else there may be wrong about you, Ellen must take her chance." They were married, and went immediately to New York, where Henry got into business as under clerk, at a small salary, in a wholesale house. The young husband experienced then the fulfilment of the prophecy, uttered by "Ishmael" at parting, that he would learn before long that life had hardships besides those endured in the slaughtering-pen. Poverty-poverty! what married man ever sung thy praises? Five years had elapsed, when Henry received a letter from Pennygoes, in which he was requested to meet the writer at a certain hotel in Baltimore;day and hour were designated. Wondering not a little as to the reason of the summons, he obeyed it. He put up at the hotel named-a third-rate one; and as he was seated in the reading-room, near the time appointed for the meeting, behold, Matthew Fulham, his father's brother, entered-the gentleman whose sentiments as his guardian had so little coincided with his "Yes; Cantoch & Co. was the name of the firm, but this man was in fact nearly the sole owner. For this reason, when I heard you had married his daughter-it was too late then for advice I was not anxious to keep up such an intimacy as would bring me into connexion with so hateful a set." Presently Pennygoes appeared, and took them to a private apartment. "Gentlemen," said he with gravity, and even impressiveness, "you both, it is likely, have had hard thoughts of me. To my door you lay the loss of a good deal of money; justly, in one sense, though I didn't secure a copper to myself. The crash fell on my head as well as yours; and if it had been otherwise, the law gave you no hold on me. Therefore you had every reason to give up the case as despe rate. What if I am ready now to repay you a part of that money?" Mr. Matthew Fulham's eyes sparkled. "But, gentlemen, I don't mean any such thing, . -I mean to pay the whole-every single cent of it." Pennygoes, after uttering this, strode about the room with arms akimbo, head thrown back, and proudly, as if he were disposed to present his face to the inspection of the whole world. Finally he stopped in front of the elder Fulham. "What I owed you was fifteen thousand dollars." Then turning to Henry, he said: "My debt to you, or what's the same thing, to your father, was eightyfive thousand dollars-yes, altogether, a round one hundred thousand dollars, not a cent more or less. How them figures have stood up day and night before my eyes, as if they were chalked out in fire! One hundred thousand! one hundred thou sand was always a ding-donging in my ears. One hundred thousand, not a cent more nor less!"` Again he paced the room, as if lost in old contemplations. Yes "I've worked some, these fifteen years. gentlemen!" he continued, with animation, “and though it is I that say it, if to my industry there had been jined the learnin' and education that some has, and wastes in unprofitableness, I needn't have been all of fifteen years making a hundred thousand dollars.-But there's business on hand-here, Mr. Matthew Fulham, are certificates of deposit for fifteen thousand; and here, Henry B. Fulham, is another set for you, to the tune of eighty-five thousand. So the job's done clean off my hands, and off my mind.". Pennygoes received the acknowledgments of the gratified creditors with great complacency.. "I have been passing," said he, after an interval, "with the good people for a reprobate; but haven't I paid up the last penny? I have been strictly just. Where's the man can say more than that?" "It is true, sir, observed Mr. Matthew Fulham," that you have acted in a splendid manner; but in posting up accounts strictly, it is usual to take into consideration the-the-in short, the interest." "The interest!" repeated Pennygoes vacantly, "the interest!-sure enough! It is the factit is the fact the interest! None but the devil could have invented interest! Where have been my thoughts this whole time? I, a man in business all my life-never to have called to mind this! For fifteen years! Why, 'tis the greatest wonder ever was telled about!" The poor man laughed wildly-" Ha! ha! if I ain't a curiosity! Look here! You, Matthew Fulham, and you, youngster!-will you believe it! from the day of the smash down to this hour, the thought never once entered my brain; and heaven knows, now it has come, it sets me crazy!" Mr. Fulham senior cast a side-glance at Henry, signifying his decided impression that the speaker must have been quite out of his wits this long time. "Never mind, though, I'll pay yet! Let's see how much it comes to. At six per cent., that's six thousand; fifteen times six is how much? Whe-ew!-whe-ew! Bless my life, and I was thinking the whole time of nothing but that fine round hundred thousand!-But don't be uneasy, I'm rugged-I'll last a good while yet |